748 
May  19,  1923 
. -  *.  ‘ 
The  RURAL  NEW-YORKER 
Hope  Farm  Notes 
“A  Spring  Day” 
Pakt  II. 
The  ground  is  so  dry  that  Tom  and 
Broker  walk  on  through  a  cloud  of  dust. 
We  surely  need  rain,  and  as  the  thought 
frames  itself  in  mind  1  feel  a  drop  on 
my,  nose.  Little  dark  spots  art*  fanning 
on  the  dry  stones.  There  comes  another 
drop  on  my  nose.  Dr.  Moore  says  that  if 
it  were  not  for  the  resistance  of  the  air, 
such  a  drop  would  be  as  dangerous  to 
life  as  a  rifle  bullet,  for,  starting  half  a 
mile  above  the  earth,  it  would  travel  at 
great  rapidity  unless  the  air  held  it  back. 
1  do  not  want  my  nose  shot  off.  but  we 
can  stand  some  of  this  sueed  if  we  can 
only  get  enough  of  these  rain  drops.  1  hat 
one  caught  me  in  the  eye.  It  probably 
started  some  half-mile  above  us.  It 
started  with  a  grain  of  dust.  Millions 
of  tiny*,  atoms  of  water  gathered  about  it. 
“Come  on,”  they  said,  "let’s  take  a  joy 
ride  down  to  the  old  earth.  W  e  have 
been  there  before,  and  it’s  a  good  place. 
Come  on!”  So  they  loaded  the  atom  of 
dust  until  it  could  tloat  lio  more,  and 
down  they  fell.  As  they  went  they 
reached  out  and  grabbed  other  specks 
of  dust,  pulled  in  a  little  ammonia 
and  other  gases  and  came  on  down.  The 
air  held  these  speeders  back,  and  finally 
dropped  them  gently  into  my  eye.  The 
single  drop  was  of  no  value  to  us  except 
as  a  warning  that  billions  more  were  on 
the  way.  Wise  old  Broker,  with  the 
pufiiiug  dust  in  his  eyes  and  nostrils,  felt 
a  drop  inside  his  ear,  and  heard  the  call 
to  dinner  next  -Winter  when  a  big  fork¬ 
ful  of  the  oats  will  be  stuffed  into  his 
manger.  Of  course,  1  know  this  is  a 
rough  way  to  seed  oats  and  clover,  but 
it  is  the  best  we  can  do  this  year.  What 
with  the  late  .Spring  and  the  shortage  of 
help,  we  must  economize  in  plowing,  if 
possible.  These  spring-teeth  working 
deep  in  the  ground,  rip  and  tear  up  the 
soil,  and  will  make  a  fair  substitute  for 
plowing.  We  use  Alsike  clover  to  follow 
the  oats,  since  that  is  a  tried  and  trusted 
friend  that  has  never  failed  us  yet  on 
these  sour  and  rough  old  hills.  I  shall 
use  Sweet  clover  and  several  new  le¬ 
gumes  on  part  of  the  orchard  to  compare 
with  Alsike.  So  on  through  the  dust 
the  big  grays  travel — about  as  powerful 
as  a  light  tractor,  and  considerably  more 
faithful.  Tom  arches  his  neck  and  throws 
himself  into  the  collar  as  if  he  knew  that 
figures  show  the  horse  is  coming  back  into 
industry.  The  figures  show  that  for 
short  hauls  in  town  the  horse  is  beating 
the  light  trucks. 
*  *  ♦  *  * 
These  drops  of  rain  felt  so  good  that 
1  felt  like  staying  right  out  in  the  open, 
to  let  the  deluge  come  if  it  would.  A 
man  of  my  age  ought  to  be  a  “dry”  when  it 
comes  to  a  rainstorm,  but  I  can  tell  you 
this  shower  was  welcome.  But  it  came 
to  nothing  after  all.  There  was  barely 
enough  to  wet  the  stones,  and  then  the 
sun  broke  through  the  clouds  and  laughed 
at  us.  I  went  back  slowly  through  the 
orchard,  looking  at  the  buds  and  hunting 
for  scale  and  other  insects.  Our  trees 
are  loaded  for  the  greatest  crop  we  have 
ever  had.  A  late  frost  would  end  the 
performance.  We  have  had  it  for  two 
years  in  succession,  but  I  have  a  feeling 
that  we  shall  escape  this  year.  In  my 
ball-playing  days  I  used  to  go  to  bat.  some¬ 
times  and  have  two  strikes  called.  The 
next  one  would  start,  but  somehow  I 
would  have  a  feeling  that  I  should  hit  it, 
and  sure  enough.  I  would  crack  out  a 
base  hit.  I  feel  about  the  same  confidence 
this  year  that  Spring  will  hit  Jack 
Frost’s  curves  and  not  strike  out.  The 
next  three  weeks  will  be  fateful  ones  for  us. 
We  need  this  crop.  It  is  right  in  sight — 
the  largest  one  the  trees  have  ever  tried 
to  handle.  It  is  quite  remarkable  how 
much  a  man  comes  to  know  about  trees 
through  careful  observation.  The  first 
buds  on  Sutton  are  very  different  from 
Baldwin.  Wolf  Uiver  with  us  is  an  early 
variety,  yet  it  is  one  of  the  slowest  to 
start  in  the  Spring.  The  tree  looks  much 
like  McIntosh,  but  is  very  distinct  in  bud 
and  leaf.  I  find  to  my  surprise  that  some 
of  my  trees  are  blooming  heavily  in  the 
off  season.  Several  Gravensteins  which 
bore  well  last  year  are  alive  with  bloom. 
The  same  is  true  of  several  other  varieties 
which  are  usually  empty  in  the  off  year. 
They  were  well  manured  last  Summer, 
and  the  frost  killed  about  half  their  fruit 
last  year.  Is  it  the  stimulation  of  the 
manure,  or  is  nature  trying  to  make  up 
for  last  year’s  failure?  I  shall  have  to 
let  wiser  heads  than  mine  settle  it.  At 
the  eastern  end  of  our  hill  orchard  we 
come  to  a  steep  hill  or  bank.  The  land 
drops  abruptly  away  to  the  lower  fields, 
and  gives  us  a  wonderful  view  across  the 
country.  The  sunlight  was  struggling  out 
through  the  clouds,  but  the  best  it  could 
do  was  to  throw  long  splinters  of  light 
aerioss  the  hills.  On  the  other  side  of 
the?  valley,  some  miles  away,  lay  a  great 
pajdch  of  this  glory.  There  were  dots  of 
white  and  pink  where  plum  and  peach 
orchards  showed  their  bloom,  and  with 
the  blue  of  the  hills  it  seemed  like  a  great 
flag  spread  over  the  earth.  Down  below 
me  on  our  lower  farm  I  could  see  the 
green  of  the  pasture,  the  brown  of  the 
strawberry  fields,  the  white  of  the  plums 
and  the  first  shimmer  of  pink  on  the  crab- 
applet.  Where  the  little  brook  sparkled 
-as  it  turned  past  the;  chicken-yard  was 
a  little  spot  of  red,  brilliant  in  the  ‘sun. 
I  knew  what  it  was — Red  Dick,  the 
rooster  who  is' changing  the  policy  of  the 
farm.  Time  was  when  the  policy  of  this 
farm  was  changed  only  by  death.  The 
farmer  would  stick  right  to  grandfather's 
ways,  even  though  they  were  long  out¬ 
grown.  We  cannot  work  that  way  now. 
Taxes  are  too  high  for  one  thing — my 
taxes  are  about  $32  an  acre  for  all  culti¬ 
vated  land.  That  makes  it  too  expensive 
to  play  with  old  customs  just  because 
they  are  gray -haired.  Today  we  must 
consult  our  trees  or  plants  or  animals  and 
change  our  plans  to  suit  them. 
***** 
Red  Dick  is  like  some  men  I  know. 
The  world  would  hardly  know  they  are 
alive.  They  seem  just  plain  ordinary 
folks  until  some  day  a  boy  or  girl  does 
some  great  thing  in  the  neighborhood  or 
in  the  world  outside.  Then  people  begin 
to  ask  who  is  the  father  of  that  young 
man  or  woman.  “He  doesn’t  look  like 
much,  but  the  young  folks  show  that  lie 
has  good  blood  from  somewhere.”  Mother 
doesn’t  get  much  credit  for  it,  unless  per¬ 
chance,  the  children  turn  out  badly ;  but 
the  card  of  fame  is  tacked  upon  father 
when  the  boys  and  girls  make  a  showing. 
That’s  the  way  it  was  with  Red  Dick. 
I  called  him  just  an  ordinary  specimen 
of  our  Red  flock.  Our  hens  at  the  egg- 
laying  contest  were  nothing  remarkable, 
and  I  put  Red  Dick  with  them  without 
any  great  hope  of  getting  in  sight  of  a 
record.  But  the  unexpected  happened. 
His  daughters  all  “take  after  him,”  and 
in  the  first  six  months  of  the  contest  they 
have  beaten  everything  in  sight.  During 
the  week  ending  May  1  these  20  pullets 
hud  109  eggs,  with  a  total  to  date  of 
1770  since  November  1,  and  other  daugh¬ 
ters  right  here  on  the  farm  seem  to  be 
just  about  as  good.  It  seems  to  me  that 
we  have,  without  quite  knowing  how, 
stumbled  upon  a  superior  strain  of  Reds. 
Red  Dick  appears  to  be  one  of  these 
beacon  lights  which  stand  beside  the  road 
showing  a  new  way  out.  I  have  heard 
men  say  that  a  boy  on  a  farm  can  take 
anything — an  ear  of  corn,  a  hen  or  rab¬ 
bit,  a  plant- — anything,  and  through  long 
years  of  selection  and  careful  breeding 
so  perfect  it  that  its  fame  will  bring 
buyers  to  your  door  on  a  drive.  I  know 
there  is  much  in  that;  we  think  we  have 
something  of  the  sort  in  Red  Dick’s 
daughters.  That  is  why  we  are  going 
further  into  poultry.  I  realize,  of  course, 
that  the  success  of  this  pen  at  the  contest 
may  be  a  “flash  in  the  pan,”  but  as  the 
months  go  by  and  these  pullets  continue 
to  lead  the  procession,  I  believe  we  have 
a  good  family  or  strain  that  will  prove 
permanent.  I  thought  at  one  time  they 
might  be  like  a  100-yard  runner — good 
for  a  short  spurt,  but  without  “wind” 
enough  to  keep  going.  But  they  keep 
getting  better,  and,  there  being  three 
drones,  37  birds  are  doing  most  of  the 
laying. 
*  *  *  *  * 
Some  people  think  the  poultry  busi¬ 
ness  will  be  overdone.  That  may  be  true 
of  eggs  for  a  time,  but  we  shall  always 
need  more  chicken  meat.  That  is  the 
reason  why  I  think  there  is  a  better  fu¬ 
ture  in  Reds  or  one  of  the  other  Ameri¬ 
can  breeds.  But  dinner  is  ready,  and  the 
clouds  have  gathered  once  more.  There 
is  another  drop  on  my  nose.  We  have 
a  thick  stew  with  carrots  for  dinner. 
While  we  were  eating  it  the  rain  started 
once  more,  but  stopped  again  like,  a  boy 
who  wets  his  feet  in  the  water  and  will 
not  go  further  in  swimming  .  The  orator 
of  last  night’s  debate  has  agreed  to  pitch 
a  game  of  baseball  this  afternoon  against 
the  school  that  lost  the  debate  last  night. 
Mother  and  the  girls  are  going  to  Paterson 
for  some  shopping.  I  guess  I  will  go 
with  them.  I  like  to  watch  the  mixed- 
up  crowd  of  humanity  in  that  mill  city. 
As  we  start  we  see  Tom  and  Broker  toil¬ 
ing  up  and  down  the  big  potato  field  across 
the  road  ahead  of  the  plow.  We  are 
to  try  our  last  year’s  plan  of  plant¬ 
ing  in  hills  with  chicken  manure  on 
top  of  the  hill.  That  succeeded  well 
last  year,  and  we  hope  to  repeat.  Uncle 
George  is  out  in  the  shed  chopping  brush 
for  fuel.  I  find  it  very  hard  to  get  my, 
women  folks  to  tear  themselves  away 
from  a  bargain  counter.  The  way  I  do 
is  to  ask  the  price,  and  if  it  looks  right, 
take  it;  but  many  of  these  ladies  stop 
and  bargain  and  hesitate.  Finally  we 
started,  and  as  the  car  moved  out  of 
Paterson  we  ran  into  a  genuine  rain — no 
fooling  this  time,  but  a  true  soaker.  It 
seemed  to  us  finer  than  any  sunshine  we 
had  seen  for  days.  We  picked  up  the 
boy  on  the  way  home.  He  won  the  game, 
4  to  2,  thus  demonstrating  the  superiority 
of  the  muscle  as  well  as  the  brain  of  our 
section.  Night  closed  in  on  us  happily. 
It  was  the  time  for  baked  beans,  and  as¬ 
paragus  and  rhubarb  are  both  ready. 
And  the  rain  fell  all  through  the  night, 
soaking  our  berry  plants  down  to  the  tips 
of  the  roots,  and  how  the  oats  and  clover 
will  sprout !  Now  keep  the  frost  away 
from  us  and  we  can  have  no  fair  com¬ 
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